


The Black Wolf and the Mage

by whenshewrites



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: #LetFantasyStilesSayDude2020, AKA other witchers, Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - The Witcher Fusion, Angst, BAMF Derek Hale, BAMF Stiles, Derek Hale as Geralt of Rivia, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Derek Hale is Not Amused, How Do I Tag, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mage Stiles Stilinski, Magical Stiles Stilinski, On Both Fandom Sides, Self-Indulgent, Slow Build, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Stiles Stilinski as Jaskier, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, Stiles Stilinski is a Mess, The Hale Pack - Freeform, The Witcher Lore, Things Will be Butchered, This is a Literal Crackfic, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24568882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenshewrites/pseuds/whenshewrites
Summary: Stiles didn’t care what anyone said, he wasn’t a bad mage.He could be a little hard-headed sometimes and ran into situations without thinking first, yes, but he wasn’t a bad mage. He’d just… never had proper training. And he couldn’t do much more than summoning a few sparks or some flames. But he wasn’t a bad mage.Which was why he ended up taking a monster contract, even as the issuer laughed at him and said he wouldn’t be paying until after Stiles came back alive. Because the bastard didn’t think he would actually survive.Stiles was determined to prove him wrong.That might’ve been a bad idea.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 56
Kudos: 90





	1. The Idiot Mage

Stiles didn’t care what anyone said, he wasn’t a bad mage. 

He could be a little hard-headed sometimes and ran into situations without thinking first, yes, but he wasn’t a bad mage. He’d just… never had proper training. And he couldn’t do much more than summoning a few sparks or some flames. But he wasn’t a bad mage. 

Which was why he ended up taking a monster contract, even as the issuer laughed at him and said he wouldn’t be paying until after Stiles came back alive. Because the bastard didn’t think he would actually survive.

Stiles was determined to prove him wrong.

That might’ve been a bad idea.

Because when he made it to the swamp and the kikimore he was hunting rose to full height, dripping dirty water and revealing a set of fangs, Stiles felt his legs go weak. He stumbled back right as one of the kikimore’s claw-like legs drove into the ground and yelped, turning around and scrambling toward the trees.

Another leg sunk into the ground right in front of him, cutting off his escape. Stiles squawked and scrambled back, tripping over his own feet and going tumbling to the ground. 

The kikimore reared over him. Stiles’s heart stopped. 

Because this was how he was going to die, Stiles was sure of it.

The kikimore drove another leg down and Stiles threw up his hands, sparks dancing over his fingers weakly. He closed his eyes, bracing for the pain, but it never came. To his surprise, Stiles heard a loud screech, followed by a low grunt, and his eyes flew back open.

There was a man standing in front of him, silver sword gleaming in the moonlight. Stiles choked on his own breath as the man moved forward, slicing one of the kikimore’s legs clean off and driving his blade toward its face, missing by less than an inch.

“Oh shit,” Stiles said, scrambling up. The stranger didn’t even look back at him, launching himself forward again. The water splashed as he went knee-deep and the kikimore screeched again, clawed leg stabbing through the air.

And then the man— well, the man was gone. Stiles blinked as the kikimore followed him, vanishing into the water. Only bubbles rose to the surface and Stiles stared.

Then he snapped back to reality and started forward, cursing. He didn’t touch the water, though, before the surface was exploding again and the stranger came flying out with his sword embedded deep in the kikimore’s head. Stiles stumbled back and lost his balance for the second time, falling flat on his ass.

“Oh,  _ shit!” _

The kikimore wailed and shook its head a few times, before collapsing forward with a loud splash. It landed only inches away from Stiles’s boots and managed to douse him in foul-smelling bog water. Stiles screwed up his face in disgust.

“Duuuude.”

The stranger yanked his sword loose with a grunt. Stiles stared in shock as he jumped to the ground and turned inky-black eyes toward where Stiles had fallen. 

Stiles thought he might be dead.

“What the hell,” the man growled. “Were you doing?”

Not dead.

The man stalked forward and yanked Stiles to his feet. Stiles swayed for a second, staring at the man and his black eyes— which were slowly started to shine gold— and then blinked. “Excuse me? What the hell were  _ you _ doing? That was my bounty, asshole!”

“What.”

“You just stole my bounty! I had a contract for that!”

“I had a contract for that.”

“No,” Stiles said. “I got to town first and the asshole farmer gave it to me. I totally had all of this under control!”

The man stared at him with fully golden eyes now. Stiles tried not to focus on that, or on the sharp jawline, dark black hair, and shining silver sword of the stranger. For some reason, all of these ticked boxes Stiles felt like he should recognize. But he was too irritated (and maybe a little terrified) to think straight. 

“I’m taking this back to town,” Stiles said, starting toward the kikimore. “Because I was like, two seconds away from pulling some magic out of my ass and blasting it to smithereens.”

“What.”

Stiles glanced back at the stranger with a raised eyebrow. The man looked incredulous. “I said, thanks for the help, dude, but it was unnecessary. Take your shiny silver sword and go steal someone else’s bounty.”

He turned back forward and eyed the kikimore. It was a lot bigger than Stiles had heard in the stories and he had no idea how he was going to get it back to town. If he was being honest, he hadn’t come into these woods with a plan other than proving the asshole farmer wrong. Which he totally did. Stiles had this under control long before golden-eyes showed up. He would’ve been fine. Totally.

But he had no idea how he was going to get this thing anywhere.

Stiles heard the sound of crunching leaves and turned around to see the stranger disappearing into the woods. Despite everything, Stiles grinned to himself. He was a strong and independent mage and clearly, this guy got the point. He was smart to not put up a fight.

“Like I said,” Stiles proclaimed, turning back forward. “I had this under control.”

Except a few seconds later, the guy came back into view, this time with a black horse in tow. He proceeded to pass Stiles like he wasn’t there and grab the kikimore by one of its clawed legs, heaving it toward the horse.

Stiles blinked. “Hey!”

The man didn’t spare him a second glance, grunting slightly as he heaved the kikimore onto the back of his horse. Stiles started forward and grabbed his arm. The man swung toward him with flashing golden eyes.

“H-hey,” Stiles said again, letting go and shying back. “Uh, dude? What’cha doing?”

“I killed it,” the man said. “I’m taking it into town.”

“Ah, yes, but I was here first.”

The stranger looked at him like Stiles had just grown horns. “That’s not how things work.”

“That is too how things work.

“You were three seconds away from becoming kikimore dinner. I saved your life.”

“Blasphemy,” Stiles said, waving a hand through the air. He started toward the horse and reached for the kikimore, but then there was a sword pressed against his neck. Going shock still, Stiles swallowed hard. “Um, dude?”

“Don’t touch Camaro.”

“Ca-what?”

“My horse,” the man said threateningly. “Don’t touch him.”

Stiles slowly withdrew his hand. He studied the man fully, taking in his golden-eyes, dark hair, and double swords. Then the recognition of it hit Stiles like a brick and he gaped for a second before grinning. “Oh, this is fun. Pretty eyes, scary brows, two very sharp eyebro— swords. I know what you are, my friend.”

The man ignored him, climbing into the saddle of his horse. Stiles was forced to stumble back as the man nudged his horse into movement, but that didn’t deter him, gazing after him as he started back into the trees.

“You’re a witcher. Derek of Hale, the Black Wolf!”

The man didn’t even get a glance backward. But Stiles could see his shoulders tense, huffing to himself. A witcher, he should’ve known.

Suddenly, the loss of his contract hit him full-fledged again. Stiles’s grin melted and he gazed at the empty bog before looking back in the direction Derek had gone. Blinked a few times, Stiles cursed and started after him, grabbing his bag from where he’d ditched it near a tree.

“Hey, wait! That’s my bounty!”

The witcher was already gone, but Stiles knew where he’d be heading. With the bounty  _ Stiles _ had totally been three seconds away from killing.

That asshole was giving him at least half of the profits.

* * *

Derek wasn’t sure what had just happened. 

Riding back into town, he couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder every few minutes or so. He could swear the rabbiting heartbeats of the idiot he’d just met were  _ following  _ him.

He’d smelled magic the second he’d come across him. But instead of actually doing anything to defend himself, the kid had been about to let himself get impaled. And then, after Derek had killed the kikimore himself, the idiot had tried to take it for himself.

Derek had no idea what had just happened. But he was having trouble shaking it off.

He arrived into town without any trouble, heading for the farmer’s to drop off the monster. The man paid him the coin owed and then proceeded to pretend Derek was nothing more than dirt underneath his boots. Ignoring that, Derek pocketed the money and headed toward the nearest tavern.

He deserved a hot meal and a drink. At the very least.

Derek handed off Camaro with a warning look to the stable-hand, who gulped before vanishing out of sight. Then, with a low sigh, he ducked into the tavern.

It was crowded and stunk of mold. So, the usual.

Derek expected the extra room fee. He also expected the extra cost for his drink and meal. Derek chose the darkest corner of the room and proceeded to ignore everything for the rest of the night, despite the stares he knew he was getting. The last thing he needed was more trouble.

Like that idiot mage. Derek shook his head.

By the time he was in his room, stripped of his armor and laying his swords next to his bed, Derek could barely keep his eyes open. He decided to do the cleaning of his blades come morning, dropping into bed with a weary sigh.

He stunk of the bog. Derek decided he deserved a bath in the morning too.

Except, he didn’t get to sleep throughout the entire night. Derek woke up when it was still dark outside and realized his door was creaking open, golden light flooding across the floor. Tensing in the bed, Derek silently reached for his closest sword, and slipped it out of the sheath. A shadow fell across the golden light. The floorboards creaked as someone entered his room.

In a second, Derek was on his feet and had a fistful of dirty tunic in his hand. He rammed the intruder against the nearest wall and pressed his sword against his neck. The man— no, boy— squeaked and threw up his hands, eyes going wide.

Amber eyes. Amber eyes that Derek recognized.

“You,” he growled, pressing his sword even harder against the mage’s pale neck. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You sold my bounty!” The boy squeaked. “I’m here for my half!”

Derek stared at him. Then he lowered his sword and took a deep breath, resisting the urge to punch the idiot over the head and dump him back out in the hallway. Derek was too tired for this. “Are you really that thick?”

“Look, dude,” the boy said. “I’m just trying to make a living out there. And, yes, maybe you weren’t that far off about me being about to die back there. But I can’t learn without experience! You know what I mean?”

“Where are you going with this.”

“I’m just saying,” the boy said. “I’ve got two hands and a budding spark. You’ve got two swords and a scary face. I could be your silent back up! Your sidekick! Your… travel companion?”

Derek let the boy go and wiped his hands off on his trousers. The idiot looked offended. “No.”

“N-no? What do you mean, no?”

“I mean go away.”

“Oh, come on!” the boy said, flashing him a pleading look. “Look, my name is Stiles. I’m good at cooking, bad at magic, but I’m getting there. And I’ve been told I’m quite entertaining when the going gets rough!”

“I don’t want you,” Derek said, turning away. “Stop bothering me.”

“But just think of what the stories would say! The Black Wolf and the Mage. We’d be legends!”

Derek ignored him, climbing back into bed. He turned his back on the mage and proceeded to pretend like he wasn’t there. Stiles stood still for another long moment before sighing and turning away, stomping back out the door. Derek heard it shut and relaxed a little.

But Stiles’s heartbeats didn’t fade. Instead, Derek heard the sound of the mage settling down outside his door. Biting back a groan, Derek buried his head in his pillow and wondered what the hell he’d done to get stuck with this idiot.

He didn’t want him. He didn’t want anyone.

But Stiles didn’t move. In fact, it sounded like he was singing. Derek hated everything.

He didn’t sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a literal crackfic that has been bothering me for weeks. I can promise nothing will make sense, I have no idea where this will go, and I might lose my mind at some point, but it'll be fun! Of course, the comments/support you guys leave makes my day. Stay safe out there!
> 
> Come hang with me on Tumblr! (Or tell me what crack things need to happen next)
> 
> [the trashbin](https://when-she-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also, my fellow Tumblr beans have decided that #LetFantasyStilesSayDude2020 is a thing. So fantasy Stiles says dude in this. It's now a thing.


	2. The Grumpy Witcher

Stiles woke up the next morning about three seconds before he face planted. 

Groaning, he blinked into the floor and then pushed himself up. The witcher— The Black Wolf of Hale— stood over him, looking unimpressed and a little bit murderous. But he wasn’t actively trying to kill him, so Stiles took that as a win and scrambled to his feet, dusting off his tunic.

“Good morning, fellow traveling companion of mine!”

“Why are you still here.”

“Well,” Stiles said. “Someone kicked me out of their chambers last night. But I knew a good night of sleep would clear your head and you’d realize how stubborn you were being, and now here we are!”

“I didn’t get to sleep,” Derek said, golden eyes glittering. “Because there was an idiot mage singing outside of my room for half the night.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, wincing. “Sorry about that. But I do have quite an awesome singing voice, do I not?”

Derek growled and pushed by. Grabbing his bag and throwing it over his shoulder, Stiles scrambled to follow. Derek acted like he wasn’t there and didn’t even stop to order breakfast, going right out to the stables. Stiles waited at the entrance of it and peeked in every few seconds, watching the dark-haired witcher saddle up his horse.

When Derek came back out, he looked at Stiles like he couldn’t believe he was still there. Stiles grinned in response. “Why is your horse named Camaro?”

“Go away.”

“What even is a Camaro?”

“My horse.”

Stiles huffed and Derek rolled his eyes, climbing up into the saddle. Stiles glanced around, realizing for the first time his lack of horse and gave Derek a smirking look. “Could I—”

“Don’t touch Camaro.”

“Oh my gods, you’re sour. Tell me, Sourwolf, is this why you have no travel companions?”

“Go away, mage.”

Stiles only shrugged and followed him as Derek started out of town. The witcher never actually tried to  _ make _ him go away and Stiles had nothing better to do, so he wasn’t going anywhere. Plus, he’d been told countless times that he was a delight. Once people got to know him and stopped trying to strangle him, that is.

Stiles let a flame dance over the back of his fingers as they walked, trying in vain to make it into something bigger than a sad little flicker. He’d once set fire to a farmhouse, but that’d been completely on accident. It was a lot harder trying to make an inferno when he could barely make his flame much more than some heat and smoke.

Derek would glance over and watch him every few minutes but every time Stiles caught his gaze with a grin, the man would grunt and look away. Stiles thought it was rather amusing.

“I know you speak in something other than grunts,” Stiles said, letting the flame go out. “Why don’t you tell me a story?”

“I don’t tell stories.”

“Oh, come on,” Stiles said. “You’ve gotta have plenty. I mean, seriously, dude, you’re a witcher. Haven’t you been like, slaying monsters since you were in diapers?”

Derek gave him a flat look at that. Stiles grinned.

“Yes, I’ve heard the rumors. I’ve also heard what else they call you, Arsonist of Beacon.”

Derek’s face tightened at that and he looked away, fingers turning white around Camaro’s reins. Stiles swallowed hard at the obvious touchy subject and looked away, the grin slipping off his lips. 

“I’m from Beacon, you know. Born long after the fire, of course, but they still talk about its destruction. And all those killed—”

“Shut up,” Derek said, cutting him off. “Just stop talking.”

Stiles clamped his mouth shut and didn’t say anything else. He played with a flame dancing over his fingers for a little longer and then extinguished it again, humming softly under his breath. By the time the sun reached midday and they passed the second town, Stiles’s feet were thoroughly sore and he’d run out of songs.

Derek hadn’t spoken to him again. In fact, the witcher was fully pretending he wasn’t even there. He muttered things to his horse, sometimes. Things Stiles didn’t catch. Sometimes, Stiles would catch him glancing over again but the man scowled and looked away every time Stiles caught him.

So, he was a bit of a grump.

“You know,” Stiles said as the sun reached its peak. “I left my town with the plan to become a performer. You know, a magic trick here and another one there. I mean, technically, I was politely asked to leave after I turned this douchebag named Jackson into a lizard, but that was a total accident. And he got turned back by a traveling mage, I heard.”

Derek only grunted. Stiles sighed.

“My father wanted me to go to Ban Ard but I got sidetracked along the way,” Stiles said. “Ended up a few hundred miles in the other direction and I haven’t really been able to stay in one place for very long since. No one appreciates a performance where the magician can’t keep hold of their act, you know? Plus, I accidentally scorched the last tavern I stayed at. The villagers weren’t very happy about that. Apparently, it was their only one.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Derek asked, shooting him a raised-eyebrow glance. Stiles was starting to wonder if those were the most imitating things about him.

“When I’m sleeping,” Stiles said, after thinking for a second. He grinned at the man. “What, you don’t appreciate me telling my stories? You could tell some of your own, you know. As I so kindly mentioned earlier only to be callously turned down.”

Derek rolled his eyes at that. “I don’t have any stories.”

“Bullshit.”

That earned him another raised eyebrow. Stiles shrugged and turned back to the piddling flame in the palm of his hand. 

“Everyone has stories. Especially monster-slaying witchers.”

“Sure.”

Stiles huffed. “Well, as I was saying. I was planning to become a world-famous traveling performer but nobody liked my tricks or jokes, so I decided to kill some monsters. Cut to my heroic battle in the forest against the kikimore, only to have you, Sourwolf, show up and take my bounty.”

“I did not,” Derek said, looking constipated. ”Take your bounty. I saved your life.”

“Took my bounty, saved my life, same difference. I’m still low on coin and I’m blaming your witcher ass for it.”

Derek sighed heavily and didn’t answer. Stiles grinned to himself.

“But,” he continued. “I’ve decided to allow it. Because, of course, we are now traveling companions and you are going to help me learn more magic tricks. Or whatever the hell they’re called.”

Derek pulled his horse to a sudden stop at that. Stiles paused too and glanced up to see Derek looking at him with an incredulous expression on his face. Stiles arched a brow.

“Are you alright there, witcher? You look a little confused.”

“I’m not helping you. With anything.”

“Now, that’s just rude. I know you witchers can do a thing or two and, since I never actually made it to Ban Ard, I could use the help. So I don’t burn down anymore taverns.”

“I’m not helping you.”

“You also said you weren’t going to be traveling with me and we’re here now, are we not?”

Derek growled and climbed off Camaro’s back. Stiles stumbled away at the expression on his face but Derek caught his wrist before he could escape, turning his hand over and squeezing until Stiles opened up his palm with a yelp. The man jerked his chin at it. “Show me.”

“Show you… what?”

“Show me what you can do, mage.”

Stiles shuffled underneath the sudden scrutiny. He scrunched up his face and a small flame came to life over his skin, dancing pitifully under the gaze of the dark-haired witcher. Derek frowned.

“What was that.”

“Uh… magic?”

Derek looked at him and then rolled his eyes, letting go. “You’re barely a spark, much less a mage. You have about as much magic as an empty pile has filling.”

“An empty pie has… that makes no sense, Sourwolf! But I’m still taking offense.”

“Good,” Derek said, pulling himself back on Camaro’s back. “I’m not teaching you anything. And if you go to Ban Ard, I’m sure they won’t either. Go back to Beacon, mage, you’re going to get yourself killed out here.”

“You know what, you need a nap!”

“I would be plenty rested,” Derek said, shooting him a glare. “If someone hadn’t kept me up all night.”

“Asshole!”

Derek only shrugged and nudged his horse forward. Stiles glared after him for a moment, before following anyway. He would leave when he wanted too, dammit, and the sour witcher wouldn’t be the one to have a say in it. Stiles wasn’t a bad mage, he didn’t care what anyone said.

A pie with no filling. That was stupid. Derek was stupid.

He and his eyebrows.

* * *

Derek had hoped that at some point during the day, the idiot mage would tire of walking, talking, or being around Derek in general, and just leave. But he never got what he wanted.

By the time the sun was touching the horizon, Stiles was still following him and, to make matters worse, he’d almost set himself on fire at least three times. He tried playing with electric sparks at one point too, and that ended up with a scorch mark inches from his right foot. And Derek… Derek thought he was an idiot.

He was an idiot who was going to get himself killed. In fact, Derek couldn’t believe he was still alive. Some higher forces must be at play.

Stiles also talked. A lot. Derek wasn’t sure if he ever shut up.

It was when he mentioned Beacon that Derek had felt most inclined to kill him. There were things he didn’t want to think about and that was one of them. But Stiles didn’t seem to know when to keep his mouth shut.

Still, he wasn’t going anywhere. And by the time Derek had set up camp and started a fire for the night, he’d resigned himself to that. Stiles had to leave eventually. Derek just had to wait him out.

The mage could cook, though. Derek had to give him that.

“So,” Stiles said around a mouthful of grilled rabbit. “Where are we going next?”

Derek didn’t answer. Stiles sighed loudly.

“I know you’re not very talkative and all that, but couldn’t you give me a little bit of information? I mean, come on, dude, all I know is you’re a grumpy witcher with extremely expressive eyebrows. Where are you from? Are there more witchers out there?”

Derek clenched his jaw and gazed up at the boy. Stiles gave him a pleading look. Sighing, Derek turned his eyes back to the flames. “Yes.”

“Yes… there are more?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, and the eyes. Is that a witcher thing? Oh my god, dude, do you all really have like, super sniffers and enhanced senses and all those things? Have you ever killed a dragon? Are there still dragons?”

“All the dragons are dead.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, deflating. “Well, that kind of sucks. Were you ever like, human? Dude, how old are you? Fifty? Sixty? Older than that?”

Derek gave him a flat look. Stiles shrugged.

“I’m just curious.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Derek said. “I’m old enough and you’re a child. One who is going to get himself killed if you keep wandering into danger like you did in the forest.”

“I was totally about to kill that kikimore.”

“You were two seconds away from getting impaled.”

“Agree to disagree.”

Derek wanted to tell him that wasn’t how things worked, but he could tell this entire argument was never going to go anywhere. Stiles was as stubborn as he was terrible at magic. Which… dwelling on that, confused him. Because Derek could smell magic and chaos radiating around the mage like that’s all he was made of. But he could barely produce a flickering flame.

Stiles confused him. And that was frustrating.

Derek didn’t like being frustrated.

Standing up with a grunt, he wandered over to his bedroll. He didn’t think Stiles had one but then again, he didn’t think the mage had any of the necessities. He had no idea how the boy had survived this long.

But Stiles’s lack of a bedroll was his own problem. Derek didn’t care, turning his back toward the mage and crossing his arms. Stiles didn’t move from the fire for a long time and when he did, Derek heard him wander over to Camaro and croon some soft things to her. Then the mage sighed and moved over again, curling up somewhere near the fire.

Derek didn’t care. He didn’t.

But at some point during the night, he laid an extra blanket across the boy. If only because Derek had two and the idiot freezing to death would be unfortunate. Not because he cared.

He thought he saw Stiles smile as the blanket was draped across his shoulders. Derek didn’t care about that either.

Not one bit.


	3. An Unwelcoming Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is doing his best, Derek is a 100-year-old grump, and townspeople suck.

When Stiles woke up, Derek was gone.

The first thing he felt was panic, sitting straight up and looking around. A blanket he didn’t remember acquiring fell down off his shoulders and the sun tipped over the top of the trees, but Derek was nowhere in sight. The fire was out. The witcher's bedroll was gone. And there was no Camaro anywhere to be seen.

Stiles stumbled to his feet and did a full circle. “Derek? Derek, you asshole, where’d you go?”

Suddenly, there was a crack. Stiles whirled back around to see Derek coming out of the trees and leading Camaro by the reins, a couple of rabbits slung over her saddle. He arched a brow as he approached and Stiles visibly deflated, tripping over toward him.

“Oh my gods, dude, I thought you left me. You’re not allowed to leave me!”

“I was sorely tempted.”

“But in the end, you realized you’d miss my quick wit and easy banter,” Stiles said with a nod. Derek rolled his eyes.

“No, I decided I wanted my blanket back and I didn’t want to suffer the guilt of leaving you to freeze to death. The first town we come across is one you’re staying in.”

“Right, good luck with that, witcher.”

Derek only huffed and yanked the blanket off of him, making Stiles squawk in protest. There wasn’t much else left of their camp— the fire was all but embers and Stiles’s pack was abandoned by his feet. He picked it up and started to stuff it on Camaro’s back, when Derek shot him a withering look. Swallowing hard, Stiles slowly slipped the pack onto his shoulders instead.

It was a long morning of not talking, when they set off. Stiles thought that was pretty witcher-y central. Still, he’d never been good at keeping his mouth shut.

“So where are we going, witcher?”

“To town.”

“Ah, a man of many words. Which town? And for what?”

“So I can drop you off.”

Stiles snorted, but still ran a nervous hand through his hair all the same. Derek couldn’t be serious, could he? Stiles was determined to stick around, no matter what the grumpy witcher said. It’d only come down to leaving if Derek decided to use his shiny silver sword or—

Stiles shook his head, banishing those thoughts. “Nope, you’re stuck with me now.”

“We’ll see.”

Well, that was foreboding. Stiles swallowed hard and stayed quiet for another hour or so, much to the obvious pleasure of Derek. The grumpy sourpuss.

Around hour four or so, Stiles’s feet started to hurt again. He never really did much walking, even when he was on his own. It always came down to him stopping whenever he wanted to and that’s probably why it took Stiles a couple of years to drift from place to place.

He eyed the back of Camaro morosely and  _ knew  _ Derek caught his extended stares, because the man would smirk and nudge Camaro on faster. Stiles was honestly a few seconds away from attempting to stab him and while that probably wouldn’t go well, he wouldn’t even regret it.

When they stopped to refill their flasks, and Derek was gone down at the stream, Stiles slipped his pack onto the back of Camaro’s saddle. That’s when he saw the poster sticking out of Derek’s bag.

Stiles would say he had good preservation skills but he really didn’t, so he pulled it out and examined the page. It was one for a bounty a couple of towns over— and the price was quite fancy.

Stiles grinned. When Derek came back with two full skins of water, Stiles turned the full force of the expression toward him and waved the poster through the air.

“You, witcher, are going for a bounty! And I’m honored to help.”

Derek paused and looked from him, to the poster, and then back. His brows drew together in a frown and he stalked forward, ripping the poster from Stiles’s hand. Stiles yelped in protest but Derek ignored him, stuffing it back into his satchel.

Seeing Stiles’s pack on the saddle next to his own, he growled even darker and yanked it off, dropping it into the dirt. Stiles glared.

"Hey!

“You’re not helping with shit, mage.”

“Excuse me, that’s rude!”

“I’m not bringing you along for your aid,” Derek said, looking unbothered. “I’m bringing you along to get rid of you.”

“You keep saying that, but I’m not falling for it. I know you like me!”

Derek growled again and pulled himself over Camaro’s back, snapping the reins. Once more, they were off to a fast pace and Stiles glared after him for a moment, before pulling his pack over his shoulder and trudging along again.

Witchers kind of sucked, man. Seriously.

By the time they reached the destinated town, Stiles was quiet, tired, and a little pissed off. He didn’t follow Derek into the stables, stalking inside instead. He thought he deserved a couple mugs of beer, a nice hot dinner, and a room without the grumpy witcher tonight.

Stiles tried not to linger on the thought that Derek might take that chance to ditch him. He was nothing if not persistent.

Derek wouldn’t make it five miles.

The tavern owner barely gave him a second glance and the barmaid that brought Stiles his drink was something a little more than friendly. Stiles plopped down in the nearest corner and proceeded to wait for his witcher— when Derek entered, the tavern went quiet. Derek didn’t even glance around but went straight toward the counter and Stiles watched as the innkeep proceeded to ignore him.

For the briefest of seconds, golden eyes snapped over to where Stiles sat. Then Derek glowered and turned away again. 

“I need a room.”

“Don’t have any more rooms, Arsonist.”

Derek’s eyes flashed and he shot a glance back over. Stiles avoided his gaze, trying to act like he wasn’t listening in, but he was pretty sure he failed terribly. Because Derek growled and turned away, stalking from the tavern, and Stiles scrambled up, nearly tripping over his own feet in an attempt to follow him.

Derek was heading back for the stables when Stiles caught up to him. He stumbled to a stop and caught the man’s arm, and Derek turned toward him with a snarl.

“What, mage?”

“Dude, where are you going?”

“Out of this town.”

“Oh my gods,” Stiles said, trying to tug him back. Derek dug his heels into the ground, though, and Stiles ended up just straining against nothing. He cursed and tried to pull again, and Derek gave him a flat look.

“Let go.”

“I have a room, Sourwolf, we can share!”

“No.”

“You big grump!” Stiles said, letting go to jab him in the shoulder. “A room is better than sleeping outside again and either we go right back inside the tavern, or I’m still following you out of this bloody town and then we won’t have a bounty at all. Is your pride really worth that?”

“It’s not my pride,” Derek grumbled. But he crossed his arms and glanced over his shoulder; where the stableboy was watching them with a terrified expression. 

“Camaro deserves a night in the stables,” Stiles said, sensing his weakness. Derek glared at him and he shrugged innocently. “I’m just saying.”

“I wish you would stop ‘saying’ things altogether.” 

“I can promise one night of attempted silence if you stop being a grump and come back into the tavern with me.”

Derek looked at him for a long moment. Then he huffed and started by, shoving back into the tavern. Stiles grinned to himself, silently thanking whatever gods were watching, before stumbling after him.

The innkeeper didn’t look happy to see Derek again; and he didn’t look happy to see Stiles trailing after him. Stiles only smirked at the man and plopped down into his chair, where Derek sat dubiously opposite him. Stiles couldn’t help but notice how the witcher's eyes tracked around the tavern. And how he refused to relax.

“Alright, Sourwolf,” he said, leaning forward. “You can take a deep breath, you know.”

“I thought you said you weren’t going to talk.”

“Seriously?”

Derek arched a brow. Stiles glowered and sat back, bringing his ale to his lips. Fine, if the grumpy black wolf didn’t want to talk, then they wouldn’t talk. Stiles could do silence.

Stiles hated silence.

By the time there was no more evening light coming through the tavern windows and Stiles had gone through a good three mugs of ale, he was feeling a little better about himself, though. He grinned cockily at Derek, who looked a little constipated, and then shoved himself up, stumbling toward the middle of the room.

Derek watched him silently. Stiles grinned as he wiggled his fingers through the air before turning toward the onlooking crowd and throwing his hands up.

“Tis I!” he shouted and he could’ve sworn he heard Derek groan. “The Mighty Mage of Beacon!”

“Buzz off!”

“Excuse me, good sir,” Stiles said, turning toward the voice. “But that’s awfully rude.”

“Should I say it again?”

“If you’d only keep it PG-13, please. We have a tagging system here.”

A series of grumbles rolled around the room and Stiles attempted a winning smile, thrusting out a hand to which a tiny flame came to life over. He wiggled his eyebrows and showed it around, winking at all those who would hold his gaze.

“Behold!”

“Get off the stage!”

Stiles glared at the same man but finally closed his fist, much to the cheering of the rest of the tavern’s patrons. Swallowing hard, Stiles turned on his heel and stalked back over to their table, dropping down opposite Derek again. He caught the barmaid's arm as she started past.

“Another ale please.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. Stiles glared at him.

“Shut up, Sourwolf.”

“I didn't say anything. But you realize you don’t have to make a fool of yourself, right?”

Stiles held his gaze for a long moment; and there was almost a sparkle of humor on Derek’s gaze. At Stiles's own expense, of course. Thoroughly done with the night, Stiles shoved himself up and started for the stairs. Derek didn’t even try to stop him.

Once more, Stiles realized Derek could take this time to ditch him. But this time, he didn’t care, stalking into their room and slamming the door shut.

Witchers could suck it. The people of this town could suck it. He was not a bad mage.

He kind of was.

Stiles dropped onto the one bed in the room with a groan.  If Derek came upstairs, he decided, the witcher could take the floor. It was his turn anyway. And it served him for being a downright grump.

But Stiles never heard him come to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up to the people: but should this fic get a bath scene like from the actual witcher? Cause I'd be soft for that. But I'm also just going left and right with this fic. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I love hearing what you have to say <3


	4. Stiles the Untrained Mage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles wakes up to an empty room, and Derek might have a heart after all.

Derek didn’t come back all night. And he wasn’t there when Stiles woke up the next morning.

For a moment, Stiles gazed around the empty room. A pit formed in his stomach and he swung his legs over the side of the bed, something he couldn’t explain forming in his throat. Because yeah, he’d gone to bed a little drunk and a little spiteful, but he’d still half-expected to wake up to a grumpy witcher camping out somewhere on the bedroom floor.

But there was no grumpy witcher to be seen. Stiles wondered if Derek had purposefully waited until Stiles retired upstairs to make his break. And if he’d even hesitated.

There was a sour taste in his mouth as he changed and stuffed his pack again, tying the strings at the top shut.

Did Stiles go after him? Was it even worth it? He’d been determined earlier.

He wasn’t so sure now.

The inkeep was still giving him the stink-eye when Stiles came downstairs, but he didn’t really care anymore. It wasn’t like Derek was around for the innkeep to hate him for. Stupid grumpy witcher and their inability to be good travel companions.

Stiles dropped down at one of the tables and gazed dully at… whatever kind of breakfast the barmaid brought over. He didn’t think it counted as food. He wasn’t sure it counted as anything else either.

Unsubtly disguised poison, perhaps.

Stiles was halfway through eating when the door swung open and a gut-stained Derek of Hale came stalking in. Stiles’s eyes rounded and he sat straight up in his seat, nearly tipping over his breakfast. But that was whatever. He’d barely been choking it down anyway.

“Sourwolf!”

Derek gave him a sideways look that was nothing other than _tired,_ and Stiles bit his tongue, shying back into his seat. Derek stalked over to the counter and pulled something out of his satchel— a head Stiles realized, wincing as the witcher dropped it onto the counter. The innkeeper didn’t look happy, but he offered over a small pouch of coins in return. Derek took it without so much of a word and then to Stiles’s surprise, stalked over.

The man  _ stank. _

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, shying back. “You need a bath, Sourwolf.”

“You looked surprised.”

“W-what?”

“To see me,” Derek said, grabbing Stiles’s bowl and pulling it toward him. One critical eye went over Stiles’s packed bag and changed clothes as he took a bite. Without even wincing which Stiles thought was… something. “You looked surprised to see me.”

“Yeah, well, I did think you ditched me,” Stiles said, leaning back and crossing his arms. “I mean, a mage wakes up to see his travel companion never came to bed and he’s supposed to what, think another room miraculously opened up? Wait— oh my god. Did you sleep out in the stables with Camaro?”

Derek’s expression was nothing other than flat. “What.”

“Did you ditch me for a horse?”

“ A  horse?” Derek’s expression turned dangerous at that. Stiles quickly uncrossed his arms and raised his hands.

“Woah, woah, down witcher, I didn’t mean it like that. But what else was I supposed to think?”

“I didn’t ditch you.”

“Well, clearly. You what, went off and—” Stiles suddenly cut off, his mouth dropped open and indignant surprise making him open and close it like a fish for a moment. “You went to kill the bounty, you asshole! Without me!”

Derek only shrugged and finished off Stiles’s breakfast. Stiles leaned over and grabbed it, but the bowl was already empty.

“You downright golden-eyed bastard!”

The few patrons that were up shot them both dirty looks. The innkeeper looked a little murderous. Derek was starting to look murderous too. “Keep your voice down, would you?”

“I will not!” Stiles said, nothing other than irritated. “You went off without me!”

Derek glared at him. Stiles glared right back.

“Bastard.”

“Mage.”

“Downright golden-eyed rat basta—”

“Stiles!”

Stiles clamped his mouth shut and arched an eyebrow. Derek looked seriously constipated for a second— which wasn’t his best look, being covered in monster guts too— before sighing. 

“I’m not taking you anywhere until I know you can defend yourself.”

Stiles stared at the witcher for a long moment. That had not been the answer he was expecting. Derek slid a coin across the table, hopefully for the breakfast he’d just stolen, and then pushed himself up, trudging toward the stairs.

Stiles only hesitated a second before following.

“Hold up, hold up,  _ Derek.  _ You can’t just spring something like that on me and continue to walk away! I need more, dude, more!”

Derek ignored him and pushed into their room, leaving a trail of gutty footprints in his wake. Stiles wrinkled his nose, dancing around them, and then turned to close the door. He spun back around but the moment he did, he was received with a face-full of monster-gut tunic.

Stiles squawked and pitched back, stumbling over his own feet and ramming up against the door. Derek— a now very bare-chested Derek— gave him an incredulous look before stripping off his trousers too. Stiles squeaked and spun around.

“Dude!”

“What.”

“Nakedness!”

Stiles could’ve sworn he  _ heard _ Derek roll his eyes. But he was keeping his own eyes fixed on the door, thank you very much, so he didn’t look back to see. Despite the curiosity that suddenly crept over him as… no. Oh, gods no. Stiles was not going there.

“So,” he said timidly, keeping his eyes very firmly fixed ahead. “Let’s backtrack a little. What were you saying about this little mage knowing how to defend himself?”

“Please never address yourself like that again.”

“Dude, answers. Let’s go.”

Stiles heard Derek sigh, followed by the sound of something dipping into water and then being wrung out. He really hoped that if Derek was cleaning himself off, he’d do it a little faster. Because Stiles’s eyes were starting to strain from how hard he was staring at the door.

“Like I said,” Derek grunted, sounding weary. “I’m not taking you anywhere with me until you can defend yourself.”

“Which means…?”

The next words sounded like they were physically painful for Derek to get out. “I’ll teach you how to do more than make more than a piddling flame, mage.”

Stiles startled so hard, he didn’t realize he was spinning back around with wide eyes until he caught a very naked Derek of Hale washing himself off with a pitifully small hand towel. Stiles squeaked and stumbled back around again, sprawling to the floor in his haste. 

Derek sighed again. “Seriously?”

“Dude,” Stiles said from the floor, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “You’re going to teach me magic?”

“Please don’t make me regret it more than I already do.”

Stiles resisted the urge to groan into the floor. Instead, he stuck one arm into the air and shot Derek a thumbs up. He could feel the man’s pained gaze from where he laid, eyes still closed.

_ No regretting it… right.  _ Stiles could do that. He totally could do that.

Totally.

* * *

Derek regretted everything.

Not just agreeing to train the mage, not just agreeing to tolerate his presence for a little longer, but for… well, first of all, for not just leaving town that one night and never looking back. Seriously, Derek had been more than tempted. He’d thought it was a miracle he’d been able to rein himself back in.

He was pretty sure it was more of a curse now.

Stiles was as spastic as he was loudmouthed, as blundering as he was annoying, and more dangerous with an actual flame than Derek would ever admit out loud.

And not in a good way.

One week into their arrangement and Derek was regretting everything. His plan had been simple; teach the mage enough tricks to make sure he wouldn’t die after Derek left him, and then Derek could finally  _ go  _ without feeling bad. Of course, he’d left that part out originally, because he was sure Stiles would come up with some way to continue latching on, but it had been simple.

Make sure he could fend for himself and then leave him to fend for himself.

Except Stiles was impossible.

Derek knew he had been right the first time he laid eyes on Stiles and smelled the heavy scent of chaos clinging around him. The boy could be powerful if he wanted to be. He could do things without the usual use of signs. Derek had no doubts he could be quite terrifying if he put his mind to it.

But Stiles didn’t have the goddamn mind for it.

He was always getting distracted and always losing control. He’d already set three trees on fire and Derek had to start training him next to a river for when things got out of control.

The kid could do a lot. But by doing a lot, he could also set an entire town on fire with one accidental sneeze.

It was driving Derek crazy.

That night, after having given up on yet another training session, Derek couldn’t stop staring at him. He couldn’t believe such a stick-like annoying kid could possibly have such a spark. It didn’t make sense.

Stiles caught his gaze from across the fire and smirked a little, lifting a brow. The flames made his eyes look less amber and more golden in the darkness. It was… unsettling.

“Admiring the view, Sourwolf?”

Derek abruptly tore his gaze away. Stiles burst out into laughter.

“You’re quite adorable when you blush, witcher, has anyone ever told you that? You look like a little lost puppy.”

Derek glowered at the ground. He didn’t do cute _. _

Stiles hummed quietly to himself and his laughter died down. The flames continued to crackle between them, reminding Derek eerily of the old pine Stiles had accidentally set on fire the day before. Had the flames been a little more to the left, it would’ve been Derek smelling like smoke and ash instead, not the tree.

Derek clenched his jaw and glared harder at the ground. His plan was supposed to have been simple, dammit.

“Your own chaos,” Stiles said suddenly, startling Derek out of his thoughts. “How old were you when you learned how to control it?”

Derek raised his eyes to meet Stiles’s amber own. They glittered with curiosity and intelligence, like always. Brighter in the flames, but not because they were normally lacking. Derek didn’t answer for a moment, considering flat out ignoring the mage, but he knew that wouldn’t go well. It never did.

“My uncle sent me to Kaer Morhen after my family died,” Derek said. “When I was still a boy.”

“Your family,” Stiles said softly. “The ones that burned?”

Derek clenched his teeth so hard they gnashed. He knew it wasn’t fair, but all he could hear were Stiles’s words from the very first day;  _ I’ve heard the rumors, witcher. I know what they call you. _

_ The Arsonist of Beacon.  _

“You don’t want to talk about it,” Stiles said with surprising gentleness to his voice. “I’m sorry.”

Derek didn’t know how to answer that. So he stayed quiet.

“It’s not easy to lose family,” Stiles said, his words dipping quieter. And in the flames, his amber eyes darkened. “It’s never easy to lose family.”

Derek would never admit that he was half tempted to ask. Because he’d never admit that he was  _ curious.  _ About what had driven Stiles from his village. About why he’d never returned, even after his obvious… failings. Derek was almost terrified that if he asked, he’d be inclined to learn more. He’d want to learn more. And then what happened when Stiles eventually left?

Derek would be forgotten in his mind. But he didn’t Stiles would be in his. It was a strange thought; and not quite an unwelcome one.

It was just unsettling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fic will get an eventual bath scene, because you guys are awesome and it seems to be wanted ;) As always, I love hearing what you guys have to say. if there's anything else you'd like to see, feel free to drop it! I never outline anyway so we're on an open road here.


End file.
